


The Road Home

by jerobitaille



Series: Darkness Will Turn to Light [2]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Episode: s03e09 The Dead and the Dying, F/M, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerobitaille/pseuds/jerobitaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spartacus acts as a placeholder, offering Agron support until he can be returned to Nasir's arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Home

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I've just borrowed them temporarily.

**The Road Home**

 

“Your five hundred lie in wait beyond that rise.” Caesar nods to a hill barely a half hour’s trek to the east. “Scipio will act as escort and depart with those who stand guard.”

 

“Do I appear fool to you?” Spartacus laughs before he slides easily from his borrowed mount.

 

The horse had been meant for Tiberius, but given the current state of things, Caesar had insisted on a litter for the body since Crassus would hardly take kindly to his son’s corpse being flung about like a bag of grain. It is of little concern to Spartacus how Tiberius makes his return journey so long as the exchange is made as promised. Naevia had protested the honoured treatment and while he may have been tempted to send the boy’s head back to his father absent body, Spartacus had yielded to calmer judgment.

 

Caesar’s mirth is equally forced. “You would not appreciate true response.”

 

“Call forward your men to complete exchange here. Tiberius and Kore will not be given into your care until my men are free from Roman control.”

 

Caesar’s lips twist in a scowl, twitching in clear indication that it is his intention to protest. Only the words stop short when Spartacus places the tip of his sword to Kore’s breast. For all the damage her bloody vengeance may have caused, Spartacus cannot fault her actions. Tiberius had wronged her, greatly, and he could not deny her the chance to avenge herself when he has permitted so many others to in the past. It is only the fortuitous opportunity that Kore herself has presented—corroborated by Caesar—that has likely saved the lives of the five hundred soldiers taken prisoner following Crixus and Agron’s failed engagement.

 

“I do not believe Crassus would look kindly on failure to return both living son and lover.” Spartacus emphasizes his words by increasing the pressure against Kore’s flesh so the sword point nearly digs into her flesh. Not yet enough to draw blood, but it would take only the slightest application of force to break skin.

 

Caesar’s continued scowl speaks volumes, relaying concessions Spartacus had already known would be made. Crassus has revealed a grievous weakness by offering up the lives of so many for the return of one man. Sadly, such a weakness can never again be exploited now that Tiberius is for Charon. Spartacus doubts the ferryman would be so willing to trade the boy’s shade for any tribute Crassus could make attempt at presenting.

 

That Caesar barks his commands with such vehemence only lends credence to his obvious frustration. Crassus appears to have given his tribune little autonomy in his mission, though Caesar has noticeably taken many. Spartacus cares little of the consequences so long as his men are returned to him as promised. With any luck, Crassus will silence Caesar entirely when he is presented with corpse in place of his beloved son.

 

“You do not intend my men to escort them fully, I hope.” Caesar shifts impatiently upon his horse, hand moving towards, but never quite touching, his belted sword.

 

“Only until the last of my men clear the rise.”

 

No further exchange is required, no terms given or requested. Caesar remains mounted and Spartacus holds both Kore and Tiberius’ corpse hostage until their agreed upon conditions are met. Caesar was sent with so few men that even if he were to attempt some unknown gambit, he would not find the odds to his favour. Spartacus’ insistence that the rebels be released at a distance doesn’t offer any disturbance beyond the blow to the young tribune’s pride. While in no way a balm for the loss of Crixus, Agron and so many other brave soldiers, it does temporarily soften the jagged edges of his hurt.

 

It takes the better part of an hour for the battered remains of Crixus and Agron’s forces to begin spilling out from behind the hill. Spartacus shifts only a few times throughout, altering his position to ease muscles tense from maintaining threat against Kore. He has not been blind to the looks exchanged between Caesar and Kore, though he is at a los to explain their meaning. The small concern he gives their silent exchanges fades in the wake of seeing so many of his men thought dead among the living. So, much as it would please him to count each returned soldier—if only to vex Caesar further—Spartacus refrains. He will not delay happy reunions longer than necessary.

 

“Our bargain is upheld.” Spartacus returns sword to his side and steps away from Kore. He goes as far as to assist her onto his now abandoned horse, sparing her the indignity of returning as a captive mounted behind Caesar. Kore has made her own choices and while he may not understand her desire to return to Crassus, he will not prevent it. “We will hinder you no longer.”

 

“Nor us you,” Caesar concedes, nodding briefly. His smile as he raises his head is far more malicious than Spartacus has yet seen it. “Oh, be sure to tell your German dog I look forward to attempt at taking my head.”

 

Caesar holds his gaze just long enough to see the impact of his words before turning his mount back towards the Roman encampment. He briskly relays orders to those under his command, sending off the presumed Scipio to begin the exchange. The litter bearing Tiberius’ body is passed off to a pair of Roman soldiers.

 

While he is aware of the activity taking place around him, Spartacus is left baffled and not yet daring to hope that Caesar’s taunt mean Agron yet lives. Of all the wretched souls to be returned to them in exchange for young Tiberius, Spartacus had not given thought to the possibility that Agron would be counted among them. Naevia could not for certain say what fate befell the German, but given Agron’s known standing within the rebel army, there was little cause to believe he would be spared. Had he been alive and free, none doubt that Agron would have already found his way back to Nasir’s arms.

 

Prior to his parting comment, Caesar had made no mention of Agron being among the survivors, though it is doubtful he would. Whatever Agron has endured since the battle’s end, Caesar takes great pleasure in it. That pleasure casts a dark pall over the heartening news that his friend might yet live. A fact that Caesar would have well known and saved for greatest impact. However, the barb has not flown as true as the Roman likely intended. Caesar no doubt places Agron’s value in his role as a warrior, discounting his role as the barbed voice of reason during their strategy sessions. Grave injury at the hand of Roman oppressors would only strengthen his resolve to see them ground to dust.

 

Though Nasir has held true to his duties since the battle, one need only look at him to see the loss made heavy upon his soul. He moves as a shade made solid, haunting the camp much the way Spartacus is sure he haunted the ludus following Sura’s murder. Nasir is far from the only such spectre within the camp.  He is, however, one of those for which the possibility of hope remains. The living death that both he and Naevia have been consigned to may yet pass Nasir by.

 

Spartacus does not wait to ensure that Caesar holds true to his promise before turning towards the freed rebels. One by one, Caesar’s men ride off, leaving their five hundred captives unhindered. Not one among them rushes as the dozen men Spartacus has brought to help guide them home move to meet them. It is not injury that slows them. Even from a distance Spartacus can see that most are not so badly hurt and those that have been are afforded ready assistance. No, these former slaves walk with all the honour and pride of a Roman legion and reveal themselves to be a true army even following defeat.

 

With the tantalizing news that Agron could still be alive dangled before him as a carrot, Spartacus is hard pressed to keep his pace steady as he moves to meet the freed soldiers. He will not play the exuberant wife, eager to coddle her returned spouse. Instead, Spartacus acts as a man hoping to see beloved friend safely among the living when he had been feared dead. It is a role each man with him currently holds. That both he and Agron stand as generals matters as little now as it does during battle.

 

Though his eyes constantly search for Agron’s imposing form, Spartacus is quick to speak with each man who offers greeting. Spartacus exchanges little more than a few words each time, but ensures he calls each by his name whenever possible as his own Thracian generals had once done. It is a small thing that often means much to men who fear themselves as little more than arrow fodder. Each of these men have chosen to fight against their Roman oppressors and Spartacus intends to honour that sacrifice.

 

Still, for each face he greets, he fears more for the one he does not see and curses Caesar for renewing hope.

 

“He yet lives.”

 

The words startle him and it takes several moments to place their meaning. It is not until Spartacus truly looks at the man—at Lydon, one of the few from Batiatus’ ludus who yet live—that the words are given weight.

 

Agron lives.

 

Spartacus trails after the former gladiator, weaving his way through the crowd of shifting bodies. Had the man not acted as guide, Spartacus is fairly certain he would have passed Agron by without notice. The towering German appears diminished, shoulders hunched and head bowed. He staggers at a slow pace and shies away from those who would offer assistance. Spartacus makes to start forward, but is brought up short by the sight of Agron’s bandaged hands. Aside from the drying rivulets of blood, his fingers appear undamaged, yet both hands are wrapped in soiled linen.

 

“He was to be an example.”

 

In the company of Romans, such a fate could have but one meaning. That Agron yet lived stood as testament to the grace of the Fates. Men are not meant to be brought down from the cross until they are carrion. That Agron has been granted new life is a blessing Spartacus had thought beyond him at this point.

 

Eyes tracing the movements of his feet, Agron stumbles past Spartacus by without pause or recognition. Each step contains a precarious waver, but Agron remains stubborn as ever, placing one foot before the next time and again. Spartacus falls into step alongside his friend, taking up post at Agron’s left so the other man need not turn his head in order to see him from his one undamaged eye. Close as he walks, Agron gives no sign that he is aware of Spartacus’ presence. He would reach out if not for the way Agron flinches from each unintentional touch of those moving around him.

 

“It gladdens heart to yet find you living,” Spartacus says by way of greeting.

 

For the briefest of moments, as Agron shows no sign of awareness, Spartacus fears the other man merely a shadow meant to torment him. Too many have fallen, their deaths forever heavy upon his heart, and for a few minutes Spartacus had allowed himself to release the burden of one such loss. As he has long known, such things are never quite so easy.

 

Agron stumbles over a few uneven rocks in his path, bare feet not entirely suited to the terrain, and Spartacus reaches out to steady him. There is a flinch, same as every other time, but when Spartacus doesn’t withdraw his touch, Agron looks up at the hand upon his arm. Ever so slowly, his eyes trace upwards to the owner of the hand and though Spartacus can see recognition in his gaze, there is no outwards reaction. It is as though he is the spectre that haunts Agron’s sight. Whatever horrors Agron saw upon the cross, they linger, draining all from the usually cheerful German. Spartacus regrets his decision to have Nasir remain behind since there is little doubt he alone could draw a response from Agron. Just as it is in Nasir’s arms that Agron will find comfort once they reach camp.

 

Spartacus may not know the full extent of what occurred at the time of Agron and Nasir’s parting, but he has witnessed their bond since its very infancy. No matter the hurts both have caused, Spartacus does not doubt their love. Nor does he doubt that it is ultimately Nasir who will heal Agron of both obvious and unseen hurts.

 

For much of the over two-hour journey back to their encampment, Spartacus allows Agron the distance his behaviour demands. It’s only when the other man’s footsteps falter more often than they remain steady that he intervenes. The tension in Agron’s shoulders is absolute even though he appears near to collapse. Under suspicion the tension is likely equal parts physical and emotional pain, Spartacus does not draw Agron’s arm over his shoulders when the other man nearly falls for the third time. He instead rests Agron’s forearm over his closest shoulder, offering support rather than insisting on it. They are of a height, so Agron is not forced to stretch already abused muscles. It is a subtle thing, but before long Agron is leaning fully into him.

 

Spartacus nods towards a glow in the distance that remains as the sky darkens. “Keep footsteps sure for Nasir waits in the distance.”

 

It could be little more than a trick brought on by the dim twilight light, but Spartacus is certain that he sees a shift in Agron’s expression for the first time. For the space of a single blink, Spartacus manages to convince himself that he glimpses peace returning to the German’s tired gaze. It fades far too quickly for it to be anything other than a trick of the light, but Spartacus allows the possibility to linger.

 

“He did you proud today, fighting in games meant to honour those lost—those believed lost.” Spartacus amends his statement at the end, hoping the reminder of continued life, if not Nasir himself, will help draw Agron from his dark thoughts. Perhaps even bring a glint of life back to his eyes. “And though perceived loss has left Nasir rudderless, he has shown calm I was not able to find following Sura’s death. He is stronger than the both of us.”

 

Spartacus would have been content with a grunted acknowledgement rather than a continuation of the worrying silence. Agron is one of the few aware of just how close he came to destruction following his wife’s murder. Agron, he recalls, was in a similar state in the weeks after Duro’s death. It still unnerves him remembering the half-mad laughter Agron was prone to while battling Romans during the first few weeks of the rebellion. Nasir had been the one to help piece Agron back together, though some of the cracks and fissure will always remain. His knowledge of Agron’s every expression will allow him to offer assistance when others would flounder in the face of the German’s consuming silence.

 

Excitement grows among them the closer they get to the camp. Even those hampered by injuries quicken their steps in preparation of being reunited with those left behind. Spartacus had hoped that such nearness would begin to bring Agron back to himself. Instead, dark thoughts continue to swirl around him, stooping his shoulders further—a feat Spartacus had not thought possible. Hesitation is clear in Agron’s every step, even more so as those from the camp begin to swarm around the returning soldiers. There is much laughter and tears from both parties as loved ones are clasped tight to breast once again.

 

Spartacus scans the growing crowd, searching out any sign of Nasir. He truly doubts the Syrian would have given up hope entirely of being reunited with his love.

 

“You are back among family and soon to be reunited with heart,” Spartacus murmurs into Agron’s ear as he gently guides the other man in the direction he remembers Nasir’s tent to be.

 

Naevia is the first he spots. In the dim light, Spartacus clearly sees the wonder and anguish warring on her features. Castus stands at her shoulder, expression unreadable. Nasir is harder to find, though when his eyes alight on the younger man, a smile immediately tugs at Spartacus’ lips.

 

Nasir’s eyes are focused solely on Agron to the extent that Spartacus doubts he is aware of anyone else. He slips through the moving crowd, his gaze intent on Agron who continues to stumble along silently, lost to his own demons. As Nasir nears, Spartacus begins to slow their steps. Agron still has yet to become aware of his lover’s approach, head tipped forward as it has been for much of the journey. Spartacus is tempted to give voice to the news of the Syrian’s closeness, but there is no need given Nasir’s haste. From the moment Nasir’s shadow falls on him, Spartacus can sense the change in Agron. Some of the tension bleeds away and Agron at last lifts his head.

 

It is only when Nasir reaches a hand up to cup Agron’s cheek that Spartacus finally sees a true reaction from the battered German. Agron’s face crumples, lips downturned, and he leans his entire body towards Nasir. As he had suspected, Nasir is the one who holds the key to restoring Agron to himself.

 

“The gods return you to my arms.” Nasir’s dark eyes hold nothing but awe and wonder for the man before him as he whispers those words. He inches closer still, placing his free hand on Agron’s bare hip.

 

Knowing that he could not leave his friend in better hands, Spartacus begins his withdrawal.

 

“I was fool to ever leave them.”

 

Agron is the one to close the last bit of distance between them, all but falling into Nasir’s ready arms. Their foreheads touch and then the barest movement brings their lips together. It is not passion that stirs their movements, but the consuming relief of having love returned after a presumed loss. The two men cling to each other, though it is only Nasir whose hands grip flesh.

 

Their reunion is brief, Agron’s obvious exhaustion combined with his more serious injuries drawing forth Nasir’s protective nature. Agron leans upon Nasir as they shuffle away quietly. Whatever else passes between them, Spartacus is not privy to it, as it should be. A few hours remain until the funeral meant not only to honour Crixus, but all those forever lost to them, is set to begin. Agron and Nasir will have that time to each other even if it means he must stand guard outside their tent throughout.

 

“Many happy reunions this night,” Laeta says quietly as she presses herself up against him. Like him, her eyes are drawn to the retreating forms of Agron and Nasir.

 

“Would that there were more.”

 

The shifting orange glow cast by the camp’s many cookfires seems to call forth countless other ghosts. Men of the ludus—Varro, Duro, Barca—fallen before true freedom was gained; Mira, Oenomaus and Rhaskos, lost too early in the fighting; Sura and Aurelia who were victims of the circumstances thrust upon them. Those and so many others weave in and out of the shadows; glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and gone when he fully turns towards them. All of them are dear to heart and it gives him great joy to hear their names called aloud as Crixus’ funeral pyre burns bright.

 

Spartacus only hopes that there will be those who remain to call out their names when the time comes. He does not ask for glory, only for the opportunity to once again find the peace that Agron and Nasir claim so readily in each other’s arms. They are among the first to seek their bed that night, walking slowly away from the amphitheatre while the bulk of the revelers are only truly beginning to fill their cups.

 

Though Agron has only enjoyed a few hours returned to Nasir’s loving embrace, he has improved greatly during it. Exhaustion and pain are still writ largely over his face, but there is life returned to him. His shoulders no longer stoop quite so low and, just before they took their leave, Spartacus is certain he saw the brief flicker of a smile pull at Agron’s lips in response to a whispered enticement from Nasir.

 

Laeta winds herself around him, her chin pressed against his shoulder. “Come, let us seek our own rest. There will be plenty enough to occupy mind come dawn.”

 

“A distraction most welcome,” Spartacus murmurs before allowing himself to be drawn away from the pyre.

 

Soon enough the end will come, for good or ill, no matter what precautions he may take. So he intends to follow the example set by others and enjoy the time that remains.

 

The end.


End file.
